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Thread: The Esoteric Diaries

  1. #11
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    Default the nectar, new. Not a Sonnet: Frre Verse

    the nectar, new


    piston, suck the breath from me
    curl my webbed luck back to dust
    languishing, i am not what i once was: me
    a horrible horace skipping through parthenon gusts
    thumbing through donne again and oscar wilde
    i come upon the taut drum of idealness
    where squishy berries on shrubs mean the death of child
    i emerge suspicious - a duck on chubby nest.

    arrest my unrest and pluck my unfounded weeds
    save my chickens and feed them eggs and cracked corn
    become my becoming so that i may river a better bleed
    my wing in a frozen stoop or paint and raisins newly bourne.
    i cannot keep quiet, my mouth is a purse
    i second in on a rough, clear canal, throwing dimes
    i'll never feel that vineyard's wooden curse
    relish like a vigil - absent ferry chimes.

    so alas, my crimes are finished, now i sew and stew anew
    solace in my thimble and an island in my view.


    kat
    Deep in Blue Dog's eyes will always lurk the hopes and longings of a melancholy people, but, like the Cajuns, who always trained their eyes on the future, Blue Dog must move forward.
    ~George Rodrigue fr 'Blue Dog Man'

    He must have a truly romantic nature, for he weeps when there is nothing at all to weep about.
    ~Oscar Wilde

    From sumthyngness into givyngness unto the given.
    ~fr 'DAR' m.s

  2. #12
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    a simple sonnet


    What heart should ache awaiting bloom
    while this heavy hand lies upon my rib?
    Warmed as the sun, sleeping breath as glib,
    I prithee old love, find me room.
    Let not our garden with years wither,
    buried in seasons, weaker, colder;
    but comfort in morning that bares her shoulder -
    I pray such heat brings roses hither.
    From you I've begged the words that feed
    this want of mine: Pick me! Pick me!
    A pinked bouquet when youíre in need
    of fairer color upon your knee.
    Oh, wake me, sir, and with kisses Iíll cede
    my ripened lips, sweet-honeyed.
    No, sleep, sweet love; such dreams, a mistake;
    gather fallen petals when you someday awake.

  3. #13
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    Oh well, I missed the iambic pentameter in that last, which robs it of it sonnet form. Will try to make up for it with something else instead.

    i LEARN i LEARN i LEARN i LEARN i LEARN

    (a little iambic pentameter joke.)

    Happy Friday to everybody!
    Carol

  4. #14
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    and to you too Spidee!!



  5. #15
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    Thanks, Mimi! I'm going camping with one of my daughters.

  6. #16
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    HOW FUN!!!
    might be chilly tho...don't forget the basics



  7. #17
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    This is how we're getting there - way fun! We'll be in an open car; I can already feel the cool mountain air running through my hair. The smells should be heavenly since it's been raining this week, and I should be blanketed by green all weekend.

    I can't tell you how happy I'll be to crawl in that sleeping bag and stop that mental tape player; It seems like it's been on rewind for weeks. The best part is that I get to hold my daughter all night long - a rare treat!

    But you're right, of course; I should pack extra socks.

    Carol

  8. #18
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    Default Grey villanelle

    Wet buds still your rainy hands
    In this morning dream. Iíve found
    My body obeys your kind demands.

    Long past the ghost of wedding bands,
    In a winter bar you downed
    Wet Buds. Still your rainy hands

    Had time to spring quicksands
    In me with the fury and the sound
    My body obeys. Your kind demands

    Men make moths to your highlit strands
    Of hair, to swoop to ground
    In the vain bonfire of your heartlands.

    I learned passion misunderstands
    Blind passage, as your tempest drowned
    Wet buds. Still. Your rainy hands

    Return some days. In ways unplanned,
    A memory can make one touch rebound.
    My body still obeys your kind demands
    When buds recall your rainy hands.

  9. #19
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    Yowling for Ginsberg

    Iíve seen the best braves of my g-g-g-generation
    Yoked like dumb-luck scarabs to the dunghill,
    Scuttling and stoking the obscene deus ex machine
    That canít eat its own damned way full-filled.

    Seen the most free fettered and bound to paint
    Sisyphus for pennies perched on deadman eyes,
    Turn time to thin dime,
    Twist speech to lipstick
    On a sallow parrot skull,
    Sell holy springs for glorified blow.

    Seen blood buy Coach,
    Pay hill-billy black gold dues,
    Tap the fat cat ashes of smoky Romeo y Juliets
    Over Johnny Walker Blues,
    All the while with a Perelandra snake
    Winding in the windy gyre to flip its bird
    At a long-
    gone
    falconer.

    Seen a once-best lost nation list
    And hoist on its Pequod petard,
    Squeezing blubber
    For its fleshy quackquackquackquackquackquack lunch.

    Seen some bully boy Ahabs punch drunk,
    Summoning St. Tickle-me to their half-mad mast,
    Chuckling the rat-a-tat diamondback
    Fear of rats in sinking cul-de-sacs.

    Iíve seen God not save the scene,
    Seen the keening cellars of Maslowís pyramid
    Become a map for Doom, photons firing
    From the flattest screens of Platoís cavern torches
    Into schoolyards where the corbies kiss the corpses.

    But whoís to blame,
    and whereís the rub,
    and whatís the effing frequency,
    Kenneth Cole?


    You see, the whole hard riddled heart seems
    Wormy with black holes, Mrs. Smith,
    And valium will no longer turn the schizo trick,
    Or whisky stare down the barrel at the basilisk.
    Bleak houses Molochís mausoleums for us all;
    Deathís undone so many in their long commutes.

    So who damn well gives that last gasp hoot?

    Poets, I say.
    Poets, I say, like you.
    But not with rails alone.
    Rant canít mend blinds.

    Poets, I say,
    Whose words must find angels homes,
    Etch unborn valentines,
    Catch this morning morningís minion
    Again, again, again.

    Lament is goose eggs, bupkiss, a cheap caboose.

    Alan Ginsberg, Iím with you in
    island
    where
    Youíve got a good mind to tongue love loose.

    Alan Ginsberg, Iím with you in
    island
    where
    You once more into the breach.

    Alan Ginsberg, Iím with you in
    island
    where
    You dare to eat a peach.

    Alan Ginsberg, Iím with you in
    Is Land
    where
    No man is a no manís land and
    Dawn isnít just a single strand
    Of a beached John Donne maxim.

  10. #20
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    Default

    Tomorrow night, Iíll stretch lazily
    before the tissued sparks
    of youth, warming in
    their exuberant dance,
    wishing it was you there in
    the shadows, stowing our gear.

    As water spiders skim the
    last light of golden sun
    reflected in the fire water,
    Iíll wish it was your ribbed henley
    and worn boots just inside
    the zippered pull of our nylon tent,
    and your vast blue eyes that
    focused upon my neck.

    You, who would soon find the
    butterflies fluttering in my breath,
    fresh from my palid girl cocoon;
    you, who would gently coax
    their colored, caroled release,
    button by button.

    In that lofty flight, my lips would
    gently part to smile, as coyly as
    the moon courting the forest black.
    From beneath boughs and branches
    would flash strange, reflective eyes,
    sparks themselves, those
    prurient creatures, and
    we too, would lie
    in a downy nest made
    of desire and abandoned reason
    while night
    flickered on.

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